Loaves of Panem
by Jaslyn
Summary: Fourteen Loaves of Bread from across Panem; the hands that held them, and the stories which made them matter.


**Written for the Caesar's Palace Nova Challenge Prompt: Create.  
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**The Capitol**

_Grand Amphitheater, Central Capitol _

With Caesar's every punch line holding the audience captivated, few notice the Avoxes walking up and down the aisles handing out food and drinks. It's only half past eight, but Capitolites are an easily peckish bunch.

A skinny girl, no older than eight, struggles to lift a basket piled high with sugar-coated puff-pastry doughnuts; her seventh this evening. She sighs in relief when she spots a fat hand waving from the stands; someone's willing to lighten her load. Her fingers wander the basket, selecting a chocolate-flavored pastry and slipping it carefully into plastic sleeve, presenting it to the plump girl with both hands and a smile on her face.

The girl snatches the doughnut and wastes no time stuffing her mouth; crumbs and sugar trickle from her chin and fall in large chunks onto her vinyl dress.

With eyes narrowing to slits, the Avox girl stares at the Capitolite child, and she tightens her clutch on the handle.

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**District 1**

_Pearly Whites Café and Bakery, District 1_

"That's it…smooth and straight," the baker smiles, examining his newest apprentice's handiwork, "pipe every roll like this one and you can call it your talent in time for the tour"

Cashmere looks at the single, perfect cinnamon bun in front of her, finished with nuts and raisins and glazed with lines of white chocolate. Her eyes flit back to the dozen other buns piled into the bin, skewed with jagged chocolate lines and misplaced pecans, and she sighs.

It's been four months, but the trembling still refuses to leave her hands.

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**District 2**

_Granite Hills, District 2_

"Holy shit," Clove pants, struggling to get the combined weight of her petite frame and a rucksack over a boulder, "are we _fucking there yet?" _

"Yea, yea, just over this ridge," Cato says, his sweat dripping onto a map held out beneath his gaze.

"That's what you said an _hour _ago," she scowls, bending over and catching her breath.

With the sound of wheezing and huffing interspersing the noise of crunching dirt between them, the pair hike to the top just in time for an orange glow to descend upon the summit.

"See? I told you the last checkpoint was near."

Clove slumps to the ground, arms lying limp by her side.

"You want some food or what?" Cato scowls, shrugging off his backpack, "There's hardly any left."

"No, I can't," she slurs, her fingers feebly waving away his offer, "I'm too fucking tired to move another god-damned inch_." _

He unwraps the parchment covered parcel and stares at the dark, rectangular wholemeal roll. Clove's lying by his feet, and it won't be long before she nods off, but he tears the bread in half anyway.

"Come on," he mutters, kneeling by her side and placing the bread to her lips, "eat."

Her sweat-glazed eyes stir in response, and she nibbles the morsel from his muddy fingers.

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**District 3**

_Factory No. 7, District 3_

Beetee shuffles his feet across the Factory floor. His eyes flit from worker to worker, and he resists the urge to fidget with his keys.

"Sir!" a foreman grunts at him, and he stumbles backwards, "are you looking for someone?"

"Um, yes," Beetee stammers, and jams his hands into his pockets, "Edison. Is he working today?"

The man points a gloved hand at the last row of lathe machines and marches off. Beetee keeps his eyes on the foreman as he walks towards the back, and tries to put on a smile as Edison comes into view.

"Edison!" he hollers, making a show out of slapping him on the back, "how nice to see you again!"

Edison forces a weak smile at him and holds two thumbs up. Beetee cranks the lathe up to its noisiest setting and holds an engine carburettor in front of his face.

"Bad news," he whispers, pointing randomly at the engine's parts, "13 can't decide when the hell they want to put the bird down. Game-man can't agree with them on a day."

"Piss off," Edison whispers back, keeping his eyes fixed on the supervisors, "how the hell are the Tributes supposed to know then?"

"Not a clue," he whispers, before raising his voice, "you've done a fine job modifying these cylinders, Edison! Keep it up and you might earn yourself a promotion!"

"Thank you sir! Would you be so kind as to let me off for my lunch break?" Edison shouts back over the din of mechanical presses. With the other workers shooting glances at them, he opens up a tin of bite-sized rolls and offers one to Beetee.

Beetee's eyes widen at the bread, and he accepts it with a smile on his lips.

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**District 4**

_Svelte Suites, Central Capitol_

With a bathrobe hanging off her shoulder, the woman drawls, "would you like something to eat before we start, sugar?"

Finnick stares at the floor and curls his toes into the carpet. He inhales sharply when she presses herself behind him and drags her nails across his bare chest. His gaze wanders to the mirror, and he quickly looks down again.

"No."

"Are you sure?" she slurs into his ear, and draws circles around his navel, "you didn't eat much during dinner."

She presses a random button on her dresser without looking, and a basket of bread appears on the table.

"Oh dear, I meant to get chocolate," she says, pressing another button which descends the food.

Finnick spots the green tint tucked beneath the bread pile, and plucks it before the basket disappears beneath the wood. He brings the bread to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of seaweed.

"How about some-"

"I'll just have this," Finnick mumbles, chewing on the salty, fish-shaped bread.

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**District 5**

_Core Cluster 4, District 5_

"I don't have much sir," the girl says, rummaging through her pockets and holding out a few copper coins. The baker stares at the girl's hands blackened by motor grease, and the dusty tinge of red hair peeking beneath her helmet.

"That's alright," he sighs, taking her loose change and replacing it with a piece of plaited bread, "it'll go stale in the morning anyway."

She bows in thanks, and he asks, "Did anyone ever tell you why they braid our bread like this here?"

Her eyes light up at his question, "the braids maximize the surface area of the dough and make it easier to absorb whatever sporadic heat there is coming from the Plant's waste heat exhaust."

"Smart cookie aren't you?" he smiles, but she remains standing with her eyes fixed to the floor.

"S-sir, I was just wondering," she stutters, "If you'd let me put in a couple of hours here before work? My family hasn't been doing too well lately."

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**District 6**

_Rolling Stock Plate No. 37_

He isn't the boy's father, but the closest thing he ever came to having one. So, he smiles when the boy calls him papa, and allows him to play with his trainman's cap – yelling _toot toot_ as he runs amongst the carriages roasting beneath the noon heat.

The boy grows old enough to work with his papa on the train fleet, but he never outgrows the rumbling in his tummy. Sometimes there'd be a lump of spiced apple cake snuck in from his father's hands, or a strip of beef jerky. Once, they share a cherry glazed muffin while hiding in the transmission room, all the while looking over their shoulders and shuddering at every sound outside the doors. But most of the time, he gets used to eating stale lumps of ginger bread made with ration grain. Being confined to the first car on the trains, he doesn't discovers the source of all those amazing foods.

He only finds out when he turns 17; by then, it's too late. He never gets a chance to eat ginger bread again, and his papa's smile remains a bitter-sweet memory at the very end.

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**District 7**

_Various Lumber Mills, District 7_

The round Rye loaves are scored with crosses and baked a long distance from the nearest lumber camp, where the smell can't reach the workers.

An hour before sunset every day, a truck crewed by squads of Peacekeepers in full Riot Gear arrives at the camps and unloads cabinets of bread for gaunt-faced workers lining up for knock-off time. The scored crosses make it easier to divide the loaves into quarters; each worker gets one piece for himself and his family.

They drop off their axes in the open tool shed and receive their bread, taken from padlocked cabinets surrounded by coils of razor wire.

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**District 8**

_Factory No. 4, District 8_

At lunch time, the factory Cafeteria usually hums with the weary conversation of tailors and seamstresses complaining about work, but there's a silence hanging in the air today. It has nothing to do with the extra Peacekeepers milling around the crowd with batons drawn.

As stipulated, a line forms by the kitchen at noon, and the cook hands out knotted pretzels for the workers' lunch with his right hand. A queue of hopeful eyes approach him one by one, and they hold their breaths when he switches to his left hand momentarily, before resuming distributing the bread with his right.

With a hundred pairs of eyes staring at the recipient of the left-handed pretzel, the man saunters to his usual lunch spot and slurps on grainy mushroom soup in silence. He looks over at the Peacekeepers before stuffing the bread in his coat and dragging his feet to the toilet.

A collective sigh of relief hushes around the cafeteria when the man returns and strolls through the lunch crowd to his seat whistling a distinctive five-tone song. The knots in his pretzel have come undone, and he wolfs down the rest of his torn-up bread.

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**District 9**

_Western Processing Plant, District 9_

"Are you sure this-"

"Shh!" the boy hisses, clasping a hand on his sister's mouth. He keeps it there until the flashlights point away from their hiding spot beneath the bushes.

"Go!" he commands, and she shimmies between a loose section of barbed wire. He joins her behind a brick wall, and they haul each other into the factory through a broken window.

"Stay low and follow-"

"I can't see anything!" she whispers.

"You don't need eyes to follow me, dipshit," he scowls, "I know where it is!"

She sighs, and resigns herself to low-crawling on her elbows and knees, brushing her fingers against his ankles every now and then. The siblings crawl through a pitch-black maze of cobwebs and dusty floorboards before reaching the storeroom.

"Feel this," he commands, pushing a barrel into her arms.

Her hands run along the wooden cask before dipping inside. She reaches to the bottom of the barrel and utters a gasp as her fingers close around fine textured grain. Unable to believe her senses, she hauls the grain to her nose and sniffs.

"Is this-" she says, "It's Barley!"

"Shut up!" he scowls, holding another handful beneath her nose, "how about this for breakfast?"

"Oats!" she gushes.

A beam of light slices across their eyes, and the girl recoils in horror.

"_Freeze!"_ booming voices echo through the room.

He squints at the pair of shadowy figures behind the torches, and clutches his sister to himself.

"Relax, it's just the fucking Millers," he says, patting her shoulders.

"Stealing from empty bins again?" the Miller twins taunt, "how about playing nice and sharing with us?"

"Piss off," the boy hisses, "today's our day, go make your multi-grain bread some another time."

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**District 10**

_Outlying Plains, District 10 Border_

Stretched out beneath the shade of an Acacia tree, the boy and his companion struggle to stay awake in the sweltering heat. They know they don't have to, the goats they're tending aren't going anywhere, and the nearest Patrol is far away.

"I think I've finally got it," he says, "what life and everything is about."

"Have you been smoking again?" she slurs, swatting away at the flies.

"No, I'm serious. And the answer's right in front of us."

She stares at the livestock grazing on dried grass. "Goats?"

"Look at them, we give them food and beat them with sticks when they get out of line. All their lives from birth, we are their masters, even when we come and take two of them to slaughter every now and then. Doesn't that remind you of something?"

"Well, that's just the way it is, isn't it?" she says, pointing at the piece of half-eaten flatbread between his fingers, "they depend on us for food, just like how we depend on the Capitol for this."

"There's grass all around them, what's stopping them from herding together and trampling us to death? They know we wouldn't kill them all, it'd defeat our intention for their existence."

She mulls over his words in silence, and by the time she's thought of an answer, the boy has thrown his bread at the goats – and his fingers are wrapped around a rock larger than his fist.

"I guess they just haven't," she whispers, watching his hands shaking.

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**District 11**

_Training Centre, Central Capitol_

"She's gone then," Chaff mutters, staring at the image of Rue's body being lifted to the sky. Interlaced with the setting sun's rays; flowers slip from her limbs and float to the ground.

He turns and mumbles to Seeder, "We still have the bread you bought." She stares at the screen in silence until her body disappears into the hovercraft.

"Do you want to give it to Thresh?" he says, looking at the hardened grimace on her face, "doesn't look like he needs it."

Seeder clutches at her pants, and she grits her teeth.

"Are you going to say anything?" Chaff continues, and her lips begin to tremble. The camera angle switches to Katniss slumped beneath a tree; flower petals stuck to her shaking tear-stained hands.

"Do you want to give it to her?" he asks again, hovering his fingers over Haymitch's number on the phone.

A single tear glistens against her dark cheek, and she nods.

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**District 12**

_Unit 3, Victor's Village, District 12_

With her head propped up against her elbows, Katniss mulls over the sight of Peeta sleeping beneath the moonlight's glow shining through their open windows. She kicks him hard in the ankle again, but his snoring continues.

Unable to get a response, she stretches over and kicks his other leg.

"W-what?" Peeta sputters awake, "Katniss? What time is it? Gosh."

"I'm hungry," she groans, and she pulls his hand against the milky smooth skin of her belly.

"Wait, just, just give me a minute," he slurs, and his eyes begin to close.

"Now!" she insists, and a kick within her reminds him who's in charge.

"Alright, alright. Let's go bake some bread."

He shakes the sleep from his head and helps his wife up to the Kitchen. Without bothering to switch on the lights, Peeta reaches for the tray of biscuits he left to rise on the counter. He slides it into the fireplace's cherry-red glow, and Katniss curls up against him with a pair of tongs.

"I'm sorry for waking you up," she says, reaching behind her and rummaging through tufts of blond hair.

Peeta's eyes roam across the softness of her skin, radiating translucence in the dimness of their living room, and he sighs.

_"I asked for it anyway."_

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**District 13**

_President's Office, District 13_

With her arms folded, Coin perches by the balcony of her office overlooking the Central Hangar. The exhaust of a Hovercraft whips around her hair as it lands, and a frown forms on her face as refugees stream from its ramps.

Plutarch saunters next to her, and crosses his arms behind his back.

"More mouths to feed," Coin scowls, "this was more than we projected."

"What's the matter?" Plutarch retorts, "Isn't this good for your precious demographics?"

"They'll return to their districts when the war ends," she says, "but I fear our food will run out before then."

Plutarch looks at her hardened face and scoffs at her words, "You've no idea where these people are from, do you? Hunger is second-nature to them."

"I'm not talking about them, I'm talking about us – District 13."

"This has nothing to do with District 13!" Plutarch yells, grabbing the balcony railings and pointing at the refugees, "This is Panem! Panem!"

"What gives you the bloody right to-"

Coin whips her head at a soldier knocking on her glass door, and she waves him in with a sigh.

"Sorry to interrupt your discussion President Coin," he announces, "your breakfast is ready."

The soldier lays out a granite slate with 70g of sliced white bread, 7g of unsalted margarine, and 18g of jam. A polished metal cup with 500ml of lukewarm black coffee completes the President's breakfast.

"Wait," she gestures to the soldier, "I want you to cut the rations by five percentage points."

Coin stares Plutarch in the eyes, and their fists ball up, "that deduction applies to everyone, refugee or citizen."

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you liked it :) This idea has been done in "**Our Daily Bread" by vifetoile89.********(Although the Movie wasn't out then, so some of the Districts have non-canon industries)****

****It's extremely well-written, and I wanted to make another one with a bit of a personal story behind each piece. Thanks for reading!****


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